


Come to Heal

by p1013



Series: Kinkuary 2021 [16]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Blood, Exhibitionism, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, He gets better, M/M, Master/Pet, Masturbation, Oral Sex, POV Harry Potter, Prisoner Harry Potter, Public Sex, Slavery themes, Spy Draco Malfoy, Temporary Character Death, temporary major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29525736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: When Harry Potter stepped out of the smoking rubble of Hogwarts Castle, no one expected him to fall at Voldemort's feet, his wand outstretched in shaking hands, and surrender.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinkuary 2021 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140512
Comments: 25
Kudos: 171
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





	Come to Heal

**Author's Note:**

> Day 17 - Public Sex

When Harry Potter stepped out of the smoking rubble of Hogwarts Castle, no one expected him to fall at Voldemort's feet, his wand outstretched in shaking hands, and surrender.

There'd been too much death, he said. Too much harm done. If Voldemort gave the Order one week to let people flee, Harry would be his prisoner, willingly, for as long as Voldemort lived. At first, the ruined courtyard was silent. No one spoke. No one was willing to. Harry's words echoed in that silence until even the memory of them started to fade. Perhaps they'd all heard him wrong, perhaps they'd misunderstood.

But Voldemort bent down—his red eyes gleaming, his snake's mouth wide and full of pointed teeth—and plucked the wand from Harry's hands with a simple, "It is done," and the world erupted with noise.

There were more deaths that morning, though Harry tells himself it was fewer than how many would have died if he hadn't given in. Even if he had been able to defeat Voldemort that morning, he had so many followers, and their fanaticism wouldn't have died with their leader. In the days after, as Muggleborn witches and wizards and their friends and families fled Britain, even more of Voldemort's sycophants came seeping out of the cracks like rot bursting forth from a corpse.

It was the right choice. He did the right thing.

But as Harry turns over on the thin mattress in his cold cell two months later, he can't help but shiver and wonder.

* * *

It doesn't take Harry long to realize that they have no idea what to do with him. They keep him fed and watered, but whenever his guards linger outside his cell, it's with a sense of uneasy, temporary glee. Though he's the one locked up, they're afraid.

Every few days, Voldemort drags Harry from his cell to be put on display. Chained and collared, he kneels in the middle of the dining room at Malfoy Manor while Voldemort's inner circle hesitantly eats dinner around him. Voldemort seems to take it as a joke, but everyone else's eyes are wary as his stay glued to the floor.

"He must be kept alive," Voldemort snaps, his voice cutting through the quiet conversation.

"And yet the resistance is rallying around the knowledge that he's alive, that he's _here_." Lucius slams his hand on the table. "You put yourself at risk by keeping him alive, my Lord."

"You dare speak to me in such a manner?" Voldemort stands, his thin, wasted form suddenly overpowering. "You think you know better than I, Lucius?"

Draco stands a moment later, his expression unafraid. "My father speaks out of turn. Of course, we will continue to house Mr Potter. No harm will come to him while he's within these walls."

Voldemort looks at Draco, considering, then takes his seat again. "That is good to hear, Draco. You've always been a more bidding follower than your father. Always willing to do as you're told." He gives Lucius a pointed glance. "And when I tasked you with the single greatest mission of your life, you came through. Perhaps I should not leave Mr Potter in your father's care, but rather in yours."

Lucius sounds afraid when he shouts, "My Lord, you can't be serious!"

"Deathly," Voldemort hisses. He places his hand over top of the Elder Wand, and Lucius's face goes white. "Give the key over to your son. Now."

His hand shaking, Lucius reaches into his robe and withdraws a golden key. It's ornately decorated, and when Harry looks back to his wrists as the room's attention turns to him, he sees that it matches the decorations on his manacles.

He doesn't see it when the key passes into Draco's hand, but he feels it. The magic in the cuffs blazes, and he curses as they burn his flesh. He'd been unconscious the first time, left only with the magically healed scars around both wrists. This time, he watches as the flesh burns away, Lucius's name removed with it, and then heals a moment later. A scar in the shape of _Draco Malfoy_ is all that's left, decorating both of his wrists like bracelets.

"It is done," Voldemort hisses, and the reminder of Harry's capitulation, his surrender, makes him shiver. "He's yours now, Draco. Do not take my gift for granted."

* * *

The first thing Draco does is move Harry from the dungeons into one of the abandoned bedrooms. It's warmer than the wet stone and dirt floor had been, but they've removed anything and everything Harry might use for escape, so that's the only improvement. There's no bed, only a mattress on the floor, and other than a basin of water they take in and out every morning and a bucket in the corner, there's no real chance for Harry to get clean.

Besides becoming Harry's owner, Draco becomes his jailer. He arrives with Harry's breakfast, lunch, and dinner, sliding them through a specially constructed slot in the door with a hissed "Food, Potter," before disappearing again.

It's the only interaction Harry has during the day, and with the mindless, numbing hours that stretch between Draco's visits, Harry starts looking forward to those brief moments of connection.

Eventually, he cracks.

Draco pushes the tray through the door one morning while Harry is crouched next to it. He can hear Draco inhale, readying the words, but before he can speak, Harry grabs Draco's wrist.

"What do you think you're doing?" Draco asks. He doesn't pull away, just turns his hand so that it forces Harry's wrist to turn with it. Draco's name flashes white from Harry's skin. "I won't let you out."

"Please." He hates himself for begging. "Please, I just need someone to talk to."

Draco laughs and slides his wrist free from Harry's slackened grip. "You don't want to talk to me, Potter."

The next day, Harry's dragged from his room and into a well-decorated bathroom by Crabbe and Goyle. They throw him, clothes and all, into the already filled tub. The hot water is scalding, and Harry hisses as it touches his skin. A moment later, the pristine water goes black with dirt.

They have him wash two more times, until the water finally stays clear, and Harry feels almost newborn without the protection the layer of grime brought with it. As soon as he's lifted bodily from the tub, Crabbe and Goyle tear Harry's soaked clothes from his body. The fabric, worn and wet, tears away easily. Shivering in the bathroom, Harry suddenly worries that this isn't just about getting him clean, but perhaps something more sinister.

"That's better."

Harry's head lifts, and he feels the sudden urge to cover himself as Draco walks into the room. He hadn't felt shame before, but now it seeps into his bones. 

Draco walks a slow circle around Harry, who does his best to not flinch at the impartial inspection. "Get him a change of clothes," Draco orders. Crabbe and Goyle comply immediately, skittering from the room like the cockroaches they are.

"How does it feel," Draco asks from behind Harry, "having my name on your skin?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

It makes Draco laugh. "Ah, that's good. That's very good. You've still got some fight in you. I thought my father's neglect would've beaten it from you by now."

"You don't know me, Malfoy."

"No," he says, and Harry feels the harsh exhale of the word against his ear. "Not like this. But I knew you before, Potter, and I never took you for a coward."

Harry can feel the heat of Draco's body against his back, and he doesn't know if he wants to lean into it—he's starving for a touch that isn't his own, even Draco's—or lash out.

"We're playing a very dangerous game here, Potter," Draco whispers into his ear. "If you do what you're told, I might be able to get you out of here."

"And why would I trust you?"

Draco grabs Harry's hand and forces Harry's wrist up, baring Draco's name scrawled across it. "Because I own you, Potter. And as long as you're mine, you'll do what you're told."

* * *

When Draco brings him a change of clothes, Harry puts them on.

There's a new collar hidden with the shirt, a thing of supple brown leather with a delicate pattern of peacock feathers embossed into the material.

He throws it in the bucket.

* * *

They go on like that for what feels like weeks. Time has become a hazy concept for Harry. He knows that the sun rises and sets, that days are passing, but he's lost count since he moved from the cell to the bedroom. He counts meals, counts washes, and hopes that's enough to track time.

His hair brushes his shoulders, and his beard has grown out into an unmanageable mess. It tickles his lips when he breathes, and though he brushes it aside as he eats, he's always ending up with mouthfuls of hair with each bite.

"I can help you with that," Draco offers one day after Harry's bath. He always spends five minutes with Harry after, while Crabbe and Goyle fetch Harry's fresh clothes. "I know the spells. I have my wand."

"I don't want your help."

"But you need it." Draco touches Harry's shoulder lightly, and even that small hint of a touch has goose pimples erupting on Harry's skin. "Let me help you, Potter. If we work together, we could—"

"You've said. I don't trust you."

Draco touches him again, and Harry closes his eyes against the pleasure of it. "You don't have to trust me. Just do as you're told."

His voice is harsh and nearly unrecognizable when he asks, "And what do I get from it?" 

"Your freedom."

It makes Harry laugh, though the sound holds no happiness in it. Draco grabs Harry's shoulder and turns him around, forcing him to meet Draco's eyes. They're as bright as steel and just as cutting. "Knight to Queen Four."

Harry's blood goes cold. "What did you say?"

"Weasley said you'd know what it meant," Draco says, his teeth gritted. "Knight to Queen Four."

"You're with—"

Draco slams his palm over Harry's mouth before he can finish talking, just as Crabbe and Goyle walk into the bathroom.

"Ah, so that's how it is," Crabbe sneers. "We can take longer next time, Draco. All you had to do was ask."

Draco glares at the pair, his hand still pressed over top of Harry's mouth. "Leave his clothes and get out."

Goyle laughs darkly and Crabbe hisses something derogatory that Harry can't hear over the deafening ringing in his ears.

"So," Draco asks once the door closes behind them. His hand drops from Harry's mouth slowly. "You've a choice to make, Potter."

Harry runs his hand over his beard and tries not to think of Draco's skin there only a moment before.

* * *

When he's back in his room, Harry's fingers tremble as he touches the baby soft skin of his cheeks and jaw.

He doesn't touch the collar around his neck. 

* * *

The next time Voldemort comes to visit, Draco puts a leash on Harry and forces him to crawl around like a dog. He feeds Harry scraps from the table, forces Harry to lick gravy and cream from Draco's palm and from between his fingers. After he wipes Harry's spit from his skin, he tangles his fingers in Harry's hair and forces him to look up. His grey eyes flashing, he whispers, "Good boy," before shoving Harry to the ground.

Voldemort laughs.

Harry waits.

* * *

"I am sorry about the show," Draco says as he washes Harry's hair three days later. "But he has to believe that you're nothing more than an amusement to me. If he suspected anything else…"

"You'd be dead."

Draco's thumbs dig into Harry's temples, not unkindly. The pleasure wrenches a groan from Harry's chest, and he feels himself flush in embarrassment.

"It's a natural response to physical stimulus, Potter. Don't fret over your virtue. I've no interest."

But Draco does it again, and when he rinses the soap from Harry's hair, Draco lingers at the nape of Harry's neck and the curve of his shoulders. When he puts the manacles around Harry's wrists, before Crabbe and Goyle take him away, Draco runs his thumb over the raised scar of his name.

Harry doesn't try to stop the groan this time. He doesn't feel shame. Grey eyes flash, but then Draco is out the door, and Harry is left alone, his mind confused and his body aching.

* * *

Harry quickly learns that Draco is a liar.

There are treats hidden in the plain fare that slides through Harry's door. Tiny bites of chocolate and candied fruits. A thick slice of beef. Fresh bread, still warm from the oven.

And when Harry travels the short distance from his prison to the bathroom, when he pulls his dirty clothes from his body, he knows Draco is watching.

Now that he's been here for months, Crabbe and Goyle trust Harry enough to know that he won't run. They leave him alone in the bathroom, but they cast a surveillance spell before they leave him unsupervised. Harry knows they don't check it—he'd said more than a few unkind things about them without any repercussions before—but he can feel the magic sparking over his skin as he bathes. Someone is tapped into the spell, and since Harry only sees three people when he's not on display for the Dark Lord, he assumes.

And he lingers. 

The washcloth is thick with soap and glides across Harry's skin. He drags it over his pulse points, his throat and wrists. They're the only places that Draco touches, even briefly, and Harry pretends that his hands are Draco's, that the pleasure he draws from his body is brought into the light by Draco rather than himself. Head thrown back against the edge of the tub, he circles his nipples until they're overly sensitive peaks. Soap trails down his chest to his stomach, and Harry's hand follows after. His cock is erect, but he doesn't touch it. He teases himself instead, dragging the washcloth over the junction where his thigh meets hip, down to the heavy weight of his balls, then back up the other side. Again and again, until his skin burns hot enough that it should boil the water away.

He wants to make this last, but he also wants to put on a show.

Wrapping the washcloth around himself, he thrusts into its slippery, wet warmth. He imagines it's Draco's grip on the other side of the fabric. He lets his mouth fall open, runs his tongue over the sensitive skin of his lips. Hips thrusting, he moans quietly.

"I know you're watching," he whispers as his pace increases. "I can feel your eyes on me. I wonder what your hands would feel like instead."

He gasps and groans, and water sloshes over the sides of the tub. The floor is drenched with it, the tiles slick and reflective, and Harry wonders what Draco would look like if he were there to watch instead of hidden behind walls. Imagines the tent of his trousers and the idle way his aristocratic hands would touch and caress.

When Harry comes, it's violent and overwhelming, and he can't help himself from shouting Draco's name, though he cuts it off after the first syllable, unwilling to give up that much of his secret.

He washes the evidence of his pleasure away, drains the tub, waits for Draco and his manacles and his collar and the way he won't meet Harry's eyes, not for a long time after.

* * *

"I don't understand why you keep him like that," Amycus Carrow says one night as Harry sits to the side and behind Draco's chair. "With the leash and the collar, the whole…" He waves an indolent hand. "Get up."

"It's so he knows who he belongs to," Draco says as he runs the leash through his fingers. "And so everyone else knows it, too."

"I know why he does it," Greyback shouts from across the room. His werewolf hearing makes him an inveterate eavesdropper. "He likes Potter on his hands and knees."

Harry's demeanour doesn't change but he feels Draco tense next to him. "I didn't ask your opinion, dog."

Greyback growls, and Harry hears the table crack as the werewolf digs his claws into the wood. "You dare talk to me like that, boy? I'll crush your neck with my teeth and laugh as you choke on your own blood."

"That's enough, Fenrir," Voldemort says lazily. He's on his fourth glass of wine, and his words are slurred with drink. "Though you make a fair point. You keep your pet in good care, Draco. He must be very… obedient."

The leather creaks in Draco's hand. "He certainly is."

"Why don't you show us, Draco?" Alecto looks at her brother, then laughs. "Does he come when you call?"

Draco's mouth opens, but Voldemort's hand stops his protest. "Yes, Draco. I do believe it's time for some entertainment. Why don't you show us what the Boy Who Lived is good for these days?" When Draco doesn't move, Voldemort's tone goes hard and unyielding. "Now."

Draco's chair is loud as it scratches against the floor. A moment later, the leash around Harry's throat tightens. "Come, Potter," he says, and Harry's the only one that hears the terror in the words.

He stays on his hands and knees and crawls after Draco. Eyes on the floor, Harry nearly bumps into Draco's calves when the other man stops. Harry looks up and catches Draco's gaze. He looks stoic and lost, silently begging for Harry to show him what to do, how to save the both of them.

So Harry does what he's always done and comes to the rescue.

He rests on his heels and with steady hands unbuttons Draco's trousers. Nosing at the fly, he exhales easily against the front placard, then eases the waistband down. The starched linen settles around Draco's knees, unable to go any further due to the spread of his legs.

When Harry pulls Draco's cock from his pants, it's still soft. For a moment, Harry's afraid that Draco will stay soft, that he doesn't want Harry the way that Harry wants him, but there's no time for fear, not with everyone watching. 

He takes Draco's cock in his mouth, smooth and easy like he's done it a million times before. His hands rest gently on Draco's thighs, and as he moves his lips and tongue over Draco's prick, he feels it harden in his mouth. His own prick grows in response, but this isn't about Harry's pleasure, it's about Draco's.

Eyes closed, Harry falls into the motion of Draco's cock in his mouth. It brushes the back of Harry's throat, but he doesn't gag, doesn't choke. He breathes through his nose and brings Draco as deep inside of his mouth as he can. He would devour Draco if he could, but he'll take this taste instead.

Draco puts his hand on the back of Harry's head, holds him still as Draco starts thrusting, hesitant, almost as if he doesn't want to. Harry tilts his head back, opens his throat, waits for the brush of Draco's cockhead to cut off the flow of air. The collar around his neck tightens each time Draco's bottoms out, and Harry tries not to think about how much he likes the feel of it, the press of leather against his skin as Draco fucks Harry's face.

Their audience is jeering around them, throwing slurs and insults at Harry like sinners throw stones. But all Harry can hear is Draco's harsh, panting breath and his own heart pounding in his ears. Though they're surrounded, there's something impenetrable around them, a bubble of privacy that no number of eyes can break through.

"Harry," Draco whispers, his grip on the back of Harry's head tightening. "Harry."

Eyes open and unflinching, Harry tries to memorize what Draco Malfoy looks like as he comes, as he falls apart. It's the most beautiful thing Harry's ever seen, and though it's over much too soon, Draco pulling away and leaving a smear of come and spit across Harry's face, Harry knows he'd do anything to see it again.

* * *

"We've got to get you out of here," Draco says as he paces Harry's cell. "It's only a matter of time before someone slips up and you get hurt or, worse, killed." He reaches for his hair as if he's going to run his fingers through it, then throws his hand aside. "I wish you would act like you gave a shit about this."

Harry's laying on his mattress and watching Draco. It's been like this between them ever since that dinner. Draco, anxious and cagey whenever he's alone with Harry, and Harry, still and waiting, a predator stalking its prey.

"I do care," Harry says, wondering if he can convince Draco to come closer, to let Harry touch him again. "But he won't kill me."

"Of course he'll kill you." Draco's eyes are wide and wild. "He's the Dark Lord. His temper is completely unchecked. You'll… you'll look at him one day, and he'll hate the colour of your eyes, even though they're the same colour they've always been, and he'll cast the Killing Curse and be done with it. With _you_."

Harry doesn't mean to laugh, but it tumbles out before he can stop it.

"For fuck's sake, Potter! I thought you cared more about your life than this! What about all of the people waiting for you out there, the people depending on you? Even if you don't give a damn about your life, you should give a damn about theirs."

"He won't kill me," Harry says as he rises calmly from his bed, "because it would kill him."

Draco stills. "What?"

"Have you ever heard of Horcruxes?" Harry starts.

It's a long time before he stops.

* * *

They fight about it for a long time after.

"It's the only way."

Draco curses. "I won't do it, Potter. I refuse."

"I can do it myself, then, but you'll have to sneak me a wand or a knife."

"No!" Draco grabs Harry's hands, then stares at his wrists before throwing them away. "No, we'll find another way. I didn't go to all of this trouble just to kill you in the end. You're going to make it through this bloody war, or so help me…"

"Or what? You'll kill me?"

"Fuck you, Potter," shouldn't sound so much like an apology, like a prayer for salvation.

* * *

The night before Voldemort's supposed to arrive for his next visit, Draco slips into Harry's cell in the dark of night. Harry awakens as soon as the door opens, his body on high alert until he recognizes Draco's footsteps and he relaxes.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, eyes closed.

Draco draws closer. The mattress dips under his weight.

"No," he says as he curls into Harry's arms, "I shouldn't be."

They lay in the dark together, Draco's face buried in Harry's neck, nose pressed into the space between collar and skin. His body shakes, and though he's silent when he does it, Harry knows Draco is crying. Harry's shoulder is wet with tears, and he pulls Draco as close as he can.

His soothing words don't mean anything, not really, but as he continues to whisper them into Draco's hair, he knows it's the only comfort he can offer that Draco will accept. So he tells Draco that it's okay, that Harry forgives him, that Harry doesn't blame him. And though he shouldn't, he tells Draco he loves him, cherishes him, would do anything for him.

Dying is nothing in comparison to the pain Harry feels knowing what he's forcing Draco to do, what it'll do to him in turn.

Eventually, Draco falls into an exhausted sleep, and Harry lets himself pretend that this is just a normal night, one where there's no Voldemort, no resistance. That they're not lying on a bare mattress in a formerly fine room, but rather in their own bedroom, in their own home, and that Draco loves Harry back.

He dozes off at some point in the night. Draco has to shake him awake, and though Harry's eyes are dry and sore from too little sleep, he forces them open so he can see Draco in the early morning light streaming through the barred window.

"This was yours," Draco says before pressing something cold and metallic into Harry's hands. "They took it from you when you were captured, but I recognized his handwriting, and you should have it. It's yours."

Harry looks down at the Snitch in his cupped hands, the simple inscription of _I open at the close_ , and he thinks back to when he caught it and Draco watching from the sidelines, even then.

He tucks it into his pocket, the gold glimmering like Draco's hair as he leaves.

* * *

His collar bites into his neck. Draco's fingers bite into his hair. There's yelling all around them, voices shouting at Draco to stop, to reconsider. Harry can still taste blood on his tongue from when he bit Draco's hand as he forced it into Harry's mouth.

This is how it ends.

" _Sectumsempra_ ," Draco hisses.

The first cut is directly across Harry's neck, deep and so sharp, it feels cold.

The collar falls to the ground, brown leather stained red with blood.

* * *

He's in King's Cross Station.

Dumbledore is asleep on a bench.

"What the hell is going on?" His voice echoes, and a moment later, Dumbledore opens one of his bright blue eyes and smiles.

"Took you long enough, young man. I believe there's a lot I need to catch you up on. I doubt that gentleman of yours will want to wait long for your return."

* * *

When Harry comes to, his face is wet and sticky with blood and people are screaming. He tries to open his eyes, but one of them is stuck closed. From the one he's able to open, he sees Draco standing before Voldemort, the Elder Wand in his pale, shaking hands.

"This is the end of it," Draco says, voice thick with anger and tears. "Now that he's dead, it's all over. You're over."

"You don't know what you're doing, boy." Voldemort stands from his chair. "You don't know who you're speaking to."

"Tom Riddle," Draco sneers. "And your last Horcrux is gone. _Avada Kedavra_!"

Green light fills the room. There's a high, unnatural yell, and then the sickening thud of a body. The screaming voices die away until there's just the silence of a room filled with terrified people, uncertain of what to do next.

Draco's voice cracks when he says, "Go."

At first, there's nothing. No sound, no movement. But then there's a frantic scrambling as the Death Eaters in the room flee, falling over each other to get out of the room, to get away before Draco turns on them.

In the resulting silence, the sound of the Wand on the floor is loud. It clatters against the stone, and then Draco is at Harry's side, his hands shaking as they run over Harry's back and shoulders.

"I'm so sorry," Draco sobs. He rests his head in the center of Harry's shoulders, his tears hot and wet against Harry's nape. "Gods, I'm so sorry, Harry. I wish…"

"You're being a bit dramatic," Harry croaks. His throat isn't slashed open anymore, but it's still sore. Healing magic takes a while to work, especially against mortal wounds.

Draco curses and falls back, and as Harry pushes himself up, Draco's mouth falls open.

"You're dead," he whispers. "I killed you. You died."

"The part of Voldemort's soul that was inside of me died." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the Snitch and presses it against his mouth. As it clicks open, he fishes the tiny stone from its protective case. "And it's rather hard to die when you've got the Resurrection Stone."

Draco looks between the pebble and Harry. "What the fuck, Potter?"

"You didn't think I'd leave you like that, did you?"

"Harry, I—"

But Harry's crawling through his own blood and into Draco's lap, clasping Draco's beloved, stunned face in his hands, and kissing him silent.

For a quiet, terrifying moment, Draco doesn't move. Harry kisses Draco with every ounce of love that he feels, desperate and afraid that he's read this all wrong. But then Draco groans beneath him, and his hands are everywhere on Harry. Tangling in his hair, pulling at his clothes, feeling over the unbroken, unblemished skin of his neck. Draco laughs, then moans, then laughs again. His lips slide over Harry's mouth, his cheeks, his jawline, until Draco's face is in Harry's shoulder and he's sobbing again, his hands fisted in Harry's shirt.

"You bloody idiot," Draco moans, rocking the both of them back and forth. "You fucking inconsiderate bastard. How dare you make me fall in love with you."

Harry presses a kiss to Draco's head, laughing. "All's fair," he says before kissing Draco's hair again. "And we've still got a war to win."

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I DID get them to have public sex in the most convoluted way possible. I've already written them in an alley for this, and a library BJ. I had to get creative.


End file.
